


The Wisdom of M

by missmishka



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Q perspective through the events of the movie, Then sex happens, There's something like an actual plot to this one, spoilers for the movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmishka/pseuds/missmishka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When M assigns Q as Bond’s quartermaster, she has but a few simple words of advice for the young man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: The usual warnings, I claim no ownership of these characters, they are simply borrowed with love and adoration from the original creators to have their stories, thoughts or circumstances embellished on a little more than the original format had done. Not for any profit.

The Director of the MI6 calls Q to her temporary office in the bunkers that HQ has relocated to after the attack shortly after his promotion to head of the Q branch. 

He is quite reasonably nervous, as this will be his first one on one meeting with M despite many passing encounters that he is sure she has no memory of.  He’s made it his habit to be invisible until he wishes to be seen, nondescript until he wants to be memorable and quiet until he needs to be heard.  It’s a skillset that would have made him a decent field operative had he had any desire to pursue that trade. 

His wait upon arrival is thankfully brief once Tanner is made aware that Q is there for the meeting. 

M is standing behind her desk, looking out over the staff going about their tasks to get the MI6 functioning again and determine the source of the attack as well as how to prevent it ever happening again. 

Q himself has been up to his elbows in the network, literally on more than one occasion, since the breach to hunt this coward down.  Q does not label the responsible party as a terrorist or villain; bombings are the acts of cowards so far removed from humanity that their only want is to watch it crumble so that everyone can be as miserable and fearful as the perpetrator.    Q knows bombs and utilizes explosives often in his inventions, knowing that operatives will use them in the field, but never is the intent large-scale destruction or personal devastation.

The woman turns at his entrance and waves him forward to have a seat.

He moves quickly to the nearest chair in front of her desk then waits for her to be seated before he sits.

She moves to stand behind her desk, bracing her hands on the surface on either side of an opened file folder.  She does not sit, but her pointed glance at the empty chair behind him tells Q to get his ass in that seat.

Q sits.

“Mr. Q-” she begins once he’s settled in.

“Just Q, please,” he stops her as politely as he can, giving a charming glance from under the fall of his bangs to avoid any reprimand for the interruption.  “I understand that that is the normal practice for division heads; address the position, not the person.”

“So it is,” she accepts the words with a nod and doesn’t soften at all at his boyish charm.  “I understand you were appointed just before this began.”

Unsure if that was a question or statement, Q simply nods.

“You’ve been with us now for…”

“Seven years, ma’am, I began interning while in school and accepted a permanent post upon graduation.”

“Then you know of our double-oh-seven?” she asks, straightening away from her desk and moving back to stare out the glass wall.

“Bond,” his nod is reflected back at him in the glass even if she doesn’t seem to see it.  “James Bond.  Commander, Royal Navy.  K.I.A in Turkey -”

“No rumors then, as of yet?” she turns to interrupt.  “Perhaps we are still capable of keeping secrets,” her tone is wry, face expressionless.

“Rumors?” he frowns at her words.

“James Bond has returned.”

Q blinks at the news and wonders how he could have possibly not known _that_ already.

“Tanner is bringing him in now for evaluations to return to duty.  Once he is cleared, he will be assigned to you.”

She moves to finally sit in the chair behind her desk, rolling it forward until she can fold her arms over the edge of the table.  This tells Q that she is now into the business of why he is here and he shifts forward to pay attention.

“Have you ever met the man?”

Q shakes his head, never having crossed paths with the infamous Agent; though not for lack of trying in his internship.  All interns made fools of themselves trying to meet the man of such repute; some hoping to bed him, others wanting autographs like some kind of groupie and others, like Q, just curious about all the buzz.  Q, though, had then and still seldom left the labs and Bond had rarely entered the bowels of the old headquarters where research and development created the specialized technology issued by Q branch to MI6 operatives.

“Let me assure you that no matter the rumors you may have heard about him, James Bond is a competent agent,” she closes the file on her desk and rises to extend the rather sizable folder to Q.  “This is his field history.  Familiarize yourself with it then return it to Tanner.”

Summarily dismissed, Q rises without bothering to tell her that he’s already read the man’s file in the database.

“That is _my_ copy of the file, Q,” M states as if reading his mind.  “You’ll find it rather different than the _official_ record, which is why you’ll not be taking it any further than my outer office.”

Q blinks at that.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He turns to leave her presence, rather more daunted after this encounter than he had previously been of her.

“And Q?” she stops him with his hand on the doorknob.  “Whatever rumors you have heard, they are all true in some fashion.  You will be working in close proximity with the man and, I assure you, you will fall in love with him.”

Q’s jaw likely drops at that pronouncement and he’s sure if he reruns the video feed from this meeting he’ll see himself as the picture of gobsmacked.

“With all respect, ma’am, I’m not gay.”

“And I’m not a giggling schoolgirl, Mr. Q,” she gives him a look that’s more effective than glue at sealing his lips against any further comment. “Sex is incidental; have it with the man or don’t, I repeat, you will fall in love with him.  Trust me on this and do try to retain some dignity in the process. Your emotions will become involved in your dealings with James. I warn you of this because there will come a point in your career when the choice must be made between the job or the man and no matter how by the book and to the letter you have been, that choice will define you. I give you these three pieces of advice to remember above all else; do not betray him, do not fail him and do not die on him.”

Her tone speaks of personal experience in this matter and Q says nothing to argue her words further. He wonders if she is aware of the rumors regarding her and her 'pet agent' and wonders further if those are among the rumors she claims has a grain of truth. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he gives a vague nod of acceptance at these new protocols as his mind spins around some new theories.  “Will that be all, ma’am?”

She nods and turns back to her people watching from high above the desks and workers below.  As Q opens the door and tries to discreetly rush out, he hears her musing aloud to Tanner who had been witness to the whole rather embarrassing encounter.

“We’re putting a lamb with the wolf.  For God’s sake, Bill, he’s still got _spots_.”

Q shuts the door with a firm click and resists the urge to put his hand over the damned blemishes that have plagued him since puberty hit at age fourteen.

He sits in a nearby chair to review the file as instructed and determinedly shakes off her words. While he cannot argue his youth; he is most assuredly _not_ some hapless lamb being offered up with a pretty pink bow. He has no doubts about Bond being a wolf, though.

He mentally scoffs at her warning of _feelings._ While she has clearly developed more than a professional interest in the man, Q does quite well at keeping emotion out of the workplace.

He's also done quite well at keeping emotion out of his personal life, so perhaps that is why he's still unmarried. Just because he hasn't found the right girl doesn't mean he's going to give up that ghost and succumb to the infamous charms of James Bond.

The very notion is laughable.

~*~

His first meeting with Bond keeps Q laughing inside at M’s prediction.

They hit it off well enough at the museum once the issues of age and experience are dealt with. They find an easy banter that will likely set the tone for their working relationship, but Q finds nothing about the operative to “fall in love with.” There is a bit of a spark between them, but that is only from the sharpening of their tongues as they match wits.

 

He is actually rather off put by the man’s pointing out of Q’s spots and he sees nothing physically appealing about the man to justify the way women fling themselves at him.  

The eyes are nice enough for blue, but Q has always preferred dark, exotic eyes. Bond clearly takes care with his body and maintains a physical regime of exercises that even Q can respect with results that are admirable if one likes the that kind of thing, but Q has always gone for shorter versions of himself; naturally lean and more concerned with maintaining mind than body. Even that _one time_ at Uni that he had experimented with another male, he had been drawn to his chem labs partner; a quiet little Asian guy with nearly black eyes and endearingly scrawny limbs. James's graying, dirty blonde hair, glacial blue eyes and bulkier frame are not at all Q's cup of tea by any stretch and he won't even get started on the personality flaws of the man.

Safe to say, he does not see himself having sex with double-oh-seven, but he does imagine that they’ll work well enough together.

Until Bond sheds his earpiece into Eve’s glass of champagne and severs the communication channel between Q and the operative; a near treasonous act as far as Q is concerned.  He designs his communicators to be almost entirely undetectable on missions and those earpieces are to be shed only as a last resort when an agent knows that they are being taken into enemy hands.  Bond may have been venturing into a lion’s den, but he needn’t have ditched the device until after he’d entered the danger zone. 

Right then and there, Q knows to kiss goodbye any hope of his gadgets making the return trip from Shanghai.  He follows the information feeds from Eve to stay up on the progress of the mission and wonders why his predecessors tolerated this immaturity from the man.

He doesn’t get anything from Bond until the man activates his transmitter for help and Q is miffed enough to actually wait one full second before ordering the Calvary to arms. 

In addition to acting as a search beacon, it also feeds sound back to Q and he is forced to listen to everything that happens to Bond on Silva’s island.  What he hears is not pleasing and Q finds himself listening with varying degrees of fear and sympathy.  He tells himself that the fear is from the realization that Raoul Silva is batshit fucking insane; or perhaps ratshit would be more fitting given the man’s little story about the vermin. 

Q has no feelings for Bond’s welfare beyond concern for an agent placed in his care.  That is his story and he will stand by it as being true.

It holds true through Bond’s return to headquarters with Silva in tow, bound safely in cuffs and chains.

Q enjoys demonstrating his technical prowess to the man right up until James proves himself to have a brain in that thick skull as he finds the key to unlocking Silva’s map. 

And then it all goes to shit once Q realizes he’s played right into Silva’s hands by hacking into the man’s computer.  He should have known better. Computers are his playground, he should have seen that move a mile away not caught wise to it after the bastard has virtually pantsed him in front of his peers.

He guides James through the tunnels after the asshole and gets caught up in the excitement of the chase; the thrill of hunting down their quarry.  It feels a joint effort; Q the brain, Bond the body and he’s never really had this kind of connection before with another operative.  Bond is not Q’s first Double-Oh; nor is he the only one that Q monitors and he hopefully will not be the last in his charge as Quartermaster, but Q will concede now that James is perhaps special.

“Q, I need help,” the man’s voice asks through the earpieces that connect them.

Q’s fingers pause there on the keyboard as he imagines not many people hear that kind of admission from the man. He wonders if this is what M had meant by choices when Bond asks him to create a trail of breadcrumbs for Silva to follow.  The idea of both Bond and M as bait somewhere is unsettling on a level that is perhaps a tad more than strictly professional.

Knowing that his career may be in jeopardy, though, Q puts his skills to use and guides them to Scotland with a trail that can be followed by Silva and monitored by Q.  Having Tanner’s assistance and Mallory’s encouragement gives Q some peace of mind that he may still have a future in the spy biz once the dust settles if he can somehow see this to an ending with Silva dead and eliminated as a threat to national security.

None of them expects M to be lost in the process even though she had been the target of Silva’s crazy schemes.

Q orders in the medics and air support then carefully closes his laptop when M’s communicator goes silent after what had clearly been her lasts words.  Bond’s earpiece hadn’t made it out of the marshes, so they hear nothing from that device.

Q removes the radio from his own ear and sits down heavily on a stool with the room deathly quiet around him. 

Knowledge sinks in for them all; Silva is dead and so is their Director.

Q cuts the feed without hesitation when M’s microphone picks up the first sniffle of the sobbing that would be James’s grief for the fallen woman.  He takes off his glasses and rubs at his own eyes, finding them suspiciously wet.  Normally he remains at the helm until some kind of all clear has been given by or for the agents in the field, but this time Q rises from his post and leaves the communications center with a nod to his assistant to see the work through.

He goes to his office and remains there, tinkering mindlessly with cell phone modifications until Eve knocks on his door with the announcement of Bond’s imminent return. 

Q follows her without thought to the medical wing to await the arrival of the agent and M’s corpse.

Bond is a silent, ashen version of himself as he walks into the building and immediately pushes through the doctors waiting to check him over for injuries.  He urges his gamekeeper, Kincade, who had been brought in for debriefing to get looked over, but Bond refuses any attention for himself.

Q stands in the doorway watching as the man approaches and he keeps watching as Bond stalks by without a look at either Q or Eve on his way to the locker room for a shower and change of clothing.

He watches after the departing figure and feels.  Q can’t define it, doesn’t recognize it and refuses to dissect it, but _something_ twists then sits heavily in his gut and knots in his throat as he sees the quiet dignity that Bond strives to project as he’s clearly hurting both emotionally and physically.

That, though, is still not when Q realizes that M had been right.

Days pass as the woman is laid to rest, Mallory is appointed to take her place as Director and Bond works to get a legitimate pass from the trainers for a return to active service. 

The whole time, Q remains in his lab, working on body armor to protect against shrapnel while not appearing as obvious Kevlar coverage.  He outfits double-ohs Three and Eight for assignments abroad and gives Six a somber welcome back after a successful mission in Brazil, but his focus is on perfecting protection.

The day news spreads that Bond is back on duty, Q puts aside the suit that he’s been working on and gives it a regretful look as he knows instinctively that Bond will never bother wearing such an item even if Q orders him to.  

_Not,_ he assures himself, _that that suit was being made only for James._

That would be far too sentimental.

He could lie to the man and claim the suit is highly flammable and intended for use as a weapon, but he sees that only ending badly when Bond tries to get it to _work_ like that.  If Q tells him that it’s the lightest weight of Kevlar that he could find to sew into material for a rather effective shield against cuts from knives and wounds from small, slow moving projectiles, he knows that Bond will just scoff it aside and refuse the very idea of such coverage.  Not that the man is suicidal or thinks himself indestructible, Q believes that James just doesn’t see himself as worth the bother of trying to protect.

That knowledge causes Q an almost physical pain.

His computer chimes with a new message alert and he moves to open the file that he has been anticipating with great dread. 

Bond’s next assignment.

He forces his mind to a detached place where he can focus on the location, parameters and potential risks of the mission so that he can plan accordingly.  He puts the order in to inventory for items to be brought to him immediately. 

The standard issue Walther PPK is a given, another transmitter, a new watch with all the thrills and the keys to a specially designed Audi that the man will be using as his cover is a European road trip to take him to his target in Spain.  From his desk, Q pulls out a special creation that he knows that James will accept; a Beretta that Q has taken the time to customize after reading in the man’s file that James as a fondness for that brand of gun.

Q still does not consider this to be a sign or showing of love for the man.  It's a gun and weapons by their very intent can never be _sentimental._ He is merely attentive to details and likes to sometimes make an extra effort for his agents and if anyone could use a personal touch just now, it is certainly James Bond.

Not that Q thinks of James and personal and touching in any fashion.  It was just a turn of phrase; ‘personal touch.’

Again; story, sticking to it.

James arrives in Q’s office just moments after the supply clerk leaves.  Q’s looks up briefly from his inspection of the watch as he always double checks devices before giving them to an agent.

The man enters without knocking or waiting for an invitation and he moves to sit in the lone chair in the room other than the stool Q likes to use at his workstation.  Q immediately recognizes both the folder and the box that Bond settles on his lap once seated.

Q makes no comment about any of that as he blinks to refocus his vision on the dials of the watch. 

James is also unusually quiet as Q finishes his inspection.

“Bond,” he finally sits upright and acknowledges the man’s presence.

“Q,” James gives him a nod, but no smirk as Q is already rather used to seeing.

Q stands and steps aside to wave James to come around the workstation to collect his items.  James rises smoothly from his chair, tosses the file down on the abandoned seat then moves to stand beside Q after carefully placing the box on the workstation.

Q hands over the watch with a brief explanation of its functions as James straps it on; then the case with the Walther and transmitter followed by the keys with directions on where to find the Audi in the garage. 

The Beretta is last and James accepts it with a smile that breaks through the stone of his expression. 

Q looks at that smile with a flutter inside that is more than just pride at James’s enthusiasm for the weapon.

Before he leaves the office to head off on the mission, James gives Q a long look then nods toward the box.

“Keep an eye on that for me,” he instructs with one last touch to the keepsake.

Q watches the man leave then falls back on his stool, staring at the black container on his table.  After several moments, he gives in to the urge to open it for confirmation.

Sure enough, he finds inside the glued together figurine of a bulldog that had long graced M’s desk.  She had bequeathed this one single item to Bond and the man has left it in Q’s care.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs as he puts the lid careful back on the box.

He finds a drawer big enough for the item and places it gently inside then makes sure to lock it for safekeeping until James’s return.

Then he very calmly removes his glasses to place then safely away from his face as he proceeds to bang his head on his workstation.

M had been right.

 _This_ is the moment that Q realizes that he has somehow fallen in love with James Bond; with or without sex.

Although he rather thinks that the sex part would be very worthwhile because that man had the kind of arse that one could bounce a quarter off of and _that_ thought merits an extra hard slam of his forehead against the padded metal edge of his table. 

“Fuck.”

He lays his head down and takes a few minutes to compose himself before he puts his glasses back on and straightens his cardigan to go out amongst them.  He has an agent on assignment and is needed back at the helm.

It isn’t until days later when Bond completes his mission that Q is given some indication that James might feel something in return.

The Walther is gone, the watch smashed beyond repair, the transmitter used and discarded, the Audi has been seized by Dutch authorities whom Q honestly has no idea how they got involved when the primary objective was in _Spain_ , but somehow such things just happen with Bond on assignment. The Beretta, though, is miraculously intact.

“I’d like to keep this, if I may,” James says as he hesitates at turning the weapon back over to Q during the check in process at the end of their rather long day.

Q looks into the man’s eyes and finds that crisp blue stare aimed upon him.  He licks his lips and watches as James’s gaze follows the progress of his tongue from one corner of his mouth to the other before withdrawing back inside.  Heat flares in those eyes and Q feels a spread of warmth through himself at the stare.

“Of course,” he manages to say after a moment.

He puts his hand over James’s on the hilt of the weapon as he urges the man to return the gun to the holster on his leg.

Before James shifts his hand away to put the weapon away, a thumb very deliberately strokes over Q’s fingers as their hands drift apart.

Q resists the urge to rub his skin, feeling singed by the contact.

He turns to retrieve the box that he has waiting for this exchange and waits for James to finish snapping his holster closed over the butt of the gun before he returns the figurine to its rightful owner.

James takes it from him with another deliberately accidental brush of their fingers.

“Thanks,” he accepts the box with a nod, opening it to stare at the bulldog.  “I’ve no idea where to put the damned thing,” he murmurs. 

There’s a pause as Q wonders if his presence is still wanted or required before James carefully replaces the lid on the container.

“Perhaps you could accompany to my new flat and make some suggestions?”

Even knowing that _this_ is the kind of career jeopardizing choice that M had likely been bracing him for, Q nods with a resounding ‘yes’ in his eyes as he locks gazes again with the man. 

For better or worse, he follows James from the office vowing to himself to never betray or fail the agent and hoping like hell that he doesn’t die.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one just kept going and going and going and I blame the holidays for my fixation on food preparation. Exploring some of my Q headcanon in this one, hope you like the little bits thrown in as you find them. :)

The trip to James’s flat is quiet and uneventful.

Q spends the most of it communicating with his assistant the priorities of the day while trying to make the man understand that Q did not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening.  That is not an easy task because the same moment Reed hears that Q has complete faith in his ability to hold down the fort appears to be the very moment that Reed becomes a hysterical, hyper- inquisitive, insecure ninny.  Q resorts to contacting Allison, one of the more promising interns from the current lot, and cajoling her to give Reed a hand beyond her normally scheduled hours because he knows very well that Reed will do anything to impress that girl.

He finishes up just as they arrive at Bond’s front door and, with a faintly apologetic cringe, he very deliberately powers the custom mobile down and tucks it away in his satchel.

“We left rather suddenly,” he offers by way of explanation.  “I failed to do my usual rounds before leaving for the day.”

“Shall I take you back to wipe their noses and tuck them in for the night?” James’s lip quirk with faint amusement as he runs his thumb idly over the key in his hand.

“They’re hardly inept,” Q defends with an expression that is likely fiercely protective.  “They’re simply used to certain routines and enough has happened of late to disrupt their norms that little things like leaving early without notice tend to cause a bit of worry.”

“Seven in the evening is hardly leaving early by any normal work standards,” James shifts the box under his arm and turns to unlock the door to his flat.

Q precedes the man at James’s urging and thoughts of the office vanish as the symbolism of crossing this threshold of the apartment sends a shiver of awareness through him.  He moves in far enough for James to follow, but his feet seem to stick to a spot some three feet inside the door as he gets his first look at the rather homey space. 

He tries not to jump visibly when the door clicks shut behind him and James locks the bolts in place to close them in the flat together.  _Alone._

Part of him wonders if he’ll be ravished against that door or if James will turn him against the wall to take him there.  He somehow expects it to be something fast and fierce, perhaps a quick tumble to the recently waxed wooden floor or bent over the nice antique oak side table that Q is standing beside.

There is additional movement behind him and he turns to see James shrugging off his overcoat and hanging it on coat tree beside the door.  Q feels his pulse quickening when James turns toward him with his blue eyes intent and oddly watchful. 

His tongue flashes out to lick suddenly dry lips as the man takes a step toward him.  After two more steps, Q’s mouth is opening to voice protests that are suddenly roaring through his mind, but nothing comes out as James stops in front of him.  The man leans forward and …. places the black box on the side table before turning away without even having breached Q’s personal space bubble.

Q blinks in some confusion and tells himself that it is only _confusion_ that he feels at James not having made some kind of sexual overture in that moment.

“I’d offer you to make yourself at home, but I’ve not even managed to do that yet,” James remarks glibly as he moves toward the decanters of alcohol on another side table set against a far wall in the living room.

The remark draws Q’s attention to the unpacked boxes placed strategically around the flat with neat handwritten labels on the side with content details like “books – biographies and war journals” and “personal effects; pictures, trophies, commendations and accolades.”   It would have looked rather nice and normal for a move to a new address had each box not had additional notes of “suitable for donation” for the books and “incinerate” for the personal effects. 

Q cannot even imagine what it must feel like to see your life inventoried and stowed away in such a fashion.

“Unacceptable,” he grits his teeth at the unpacked boxes.  “All of this should have been dealt with by the same bloody fools that packed it all away.  You’ve enough on your plate, the very least they could-”

“I appreciate you indignation on my behalf,” James interrupts while pouring an amber liquid into a tumbler, “at least, I should hope it’s on my behalf, but I specifically asked to unpack myself.  Death has a way of cutting through garbage so I figured I’d give it all a proper going through to see what to keep, give away or _incinerate_.”

He hisses the last as he takes a drink from his glass so Q cannot be sure if bitterness is behind the word or just the burn of alcohol.

“Perhaps you can motivate me on to that while we’re at it.”

_At what?_

_What **it**?_

James empties his glass then refills it before tipping liquor into a second tumbler.  Q watches in growing confusion as the man carries the drinks over and offers the second glass to Q.  He accepts the drink reflexively despite not being much of a drinker and hardly ever taking anything straight up like this.

“Will you be taking your coat off, at least?” James asks as he moves away again to lean casually against the back of the sofa.  “I’m feeling a terrible host with you hovering there.  I can’t decide if you intend to bolt for the door or attempt flying out the window as soon as I turn my back.  I assure you that I only bite upon invitation or provocation and it’s really not so bad when I take a nibble.”

Q jolts at the chiding tone and openly amused expression on the man’s face.  Then those _words_ sink in and the idea of breaking for the door is tempting.  He is determined to see this through, though, and running away is not on his agenda.  If it gets to be too much he is more than capable of simply saying stop and has no doubt that James will obey that. 

He looks down at himself still zipped up in his parka jacket, one hand gripping the strap of his satchel the other now holding a glass of liquor and sees why James is so amused by his pose. 

In a rather foolish rush to correct the picture of discomfort that he has made of himself, Q gulps down the alcohol; pure Scottish whisky Q identifies by the choking burn of it on the way down as it brings tears to his eyes.  He turns blindly to put the tumbler down on the table, then whips off his satchel to drop with unusual disregard to the floor as he tackles the fastenings of his coat.  Once he has it off he moves to hang it beside James’s coat and he tries not to take a mental picture of how naturally the two items seem to hang together on that coat rack. 

It would be presumptuous to think of setting up house before having sex with a person and preposterous to imagine moving in with the likes of James Bond _after_ having notched his bedpost.  Especially as the man hasn’t even moved himself in to live here.

At a loss for something to do with his coat put up, he turns back to find James idly sipping at his whisky with his eyes watching Q’s every move.  He’s like a hawk focusing in on a field mouse awaiting the right moment to swoop in for the kill.

“Have you eaten?”

The question is unsettling given the course of Q’s thoughts and he hasn’t a clue how to take it, so he likely just gapes at the man.

“They’ve a service that comes around and keeps the kitchen stocked,” James pushes away from the couch and moves toward said kitchen.  “I’m fairly competent with a skillet and eggs.  If you’re hungry, I could manage an omelet or American-styled scramble.  Even fancy up some French toast if you’ve a taste for something sweet.”

“You’re offering me food?” Q trails slowly after him.

“It’s customary to repay a favor in kind.  I’ve dragged you over here to help me settle in, the least I can do is feed you if you’ve not eaten yet.  I don’t recall eating much beyond a sandwich from the vending machine at the police station in Maastricht yesterday, so I’m in the mood for something a bit more filling,” he sets his drink down on the counter and moves to the refrigerator while talking.  “Got some tasty looking sausages in here.  Why don’t you have a look in the pantry for potatoes and we can have some bangers and mash?  That should hit the spot.”

After a moment pause to run the odds that he’s happened into some twilight zone – _those odds are good to very likely_ \- Q moves in the direction that James’s chin jerked to locate the door of the pantry and look inside. 

Sure enough, there is a five-pound bag of spuds on the floor in the back corner.  Muttering to himself about the absurdity of all this he bends to collect the sack and grabs the onions while he’s at it.  He turns to hold the items up for James’s inspection only to find the man rummaging through cupboards and humming idly under his breath as he begins to gather cookware for his dinner.

He moves to place the potatoes on the counter and James flicks him a sideways glance.

“Best start peeling,” the man deftly removes a paring knife from wooden block knife set holder on the counter and offers it to Q.

With his brow ticking upward in disbelief, Q heaves a heavy sigh and moves to place his burden down beside the sink before he accepts the knife.

“This hardly seems repayment of a favor if you’re expecting me to do all the work,” he mumbles as he put the knife aside to begin selecting potatoes from the sack to give them a good scrub in the sink to wash away dirt. 

“Hardly _all_ the work.”

He looks around to see James assembling his collection of ingredients and cooking utensils in a surprisingly organized fashion next to the stove.  As he watches the man move, he notices that James has shed his shoes at some point and there’s an intimacy at seeing those bare feet that makes Q look away. 

“That should be enough for two,” James decrees as he suddenly bumps in beside Q at the sink to fill a pot with water to boil the potatoes in.

Q intends to glare and protest the jostling, but his averted eyes are redirected at the bump and he finds himself staring again at James’s bare feet as they’re now positioned so close to Q’s Penny Loafers.  Looking at their feet he’s reminded of the fact that their coats are hanging together on the rack inside the entrance of the apartment and he has no idea why that feels so bloody significant. 

James’s feet move out of his line of sight and Q shakes his head clear of the foolishness forming in his brain.  He turns on the tap and thoroughly scrubs the eight large potatoes that he’d selected.  Once he’s finished that, he locates a towel to dry his hands then he spreads it out on the counter to place the potatoes on.  He finds a bowl to put the spuds in once quartered and a container for the peelings then he picks the knife back up and gets to work.

He’s familiar with this task, having been given it often enough by his mother as a child, but it’s been quite a while since he’s done it.  He hasn’t been home for a holiday in three years, or so his mother bemoans when he remembers to call her, and he seldom bothers cooking anything for himself that involves more than three steps; two of those steps invariably being along the lines of remove container from package then place container in microwave.

Perhaps that’s why this is so unsettling.  He only ever helps in the kitchen when he’s back home and standing over the sink peeling potatoes reminds him very much of his family; makes the scene feel too homey. 

He wonders if James has any similar memories of a life when he had living parents then Q immediately shakes off that thought while making a mental promise to call his mother in the morning.

He forces his attention to the task at hand and tries not to watch too intently out of the corner of his eye as James starts a burner for the pot of water to begin heating.  He can’t ignore the man, though, when James returns to stand beside Q, arms brushing as their shoulders come into contact.

James reaches past him to pull the bag of onions close.  He studies the contents carefully, reaching for a large yellow onion then looking contemplatively at Q before bypassing it for a smaller one.  _The_ smallest one in the bag, in fact.  James places the little bulb on the counter then collects the bags of onions and potatoes and moves to return them to the pantry.

“You’ll need more than that for the gravy,” Q finds his voice to protest with a pointed glance at the lone onion; a very modest medium in size.

“I think I’ll do a brown gravy.  Just give the bangers a bit of flavor fried up with some onion,” James explains as he moves back to the counter.

“But onion gravy’s best.”

_That is not just Q pouting it is practically British law._

“This will be quite enough to give the brown an oniony taste,” James shucks the onion then leans around Q to reach for a paring knife of his own.

“But onion gravy’s my favorite.”

 ** _That is_** _Q pouting._

James gives him a _look_ before he begins slicing the onion with quick, deft motions of the blade.

Q shuts up about the damned gravy and focuses on cutting up the potatoes. 

James moves away long enough to start a second burner, heat some oil in it then he tosses in the onions to let them caramelize before he starts frying the sausages.

“How many you think you can eat?”

Q looks at the package of sausages in James’s hands and gives a shrug.

“I’m sure we can manage them all,” he says by way of answering.  “Throw them all in.”

There were eight in the package and while Q would likely only eat two or three, James had said that he was hungry.  He watches as James takes his advice and tears into the packaging to get them all out for frying.

“Not done yet?”

Q looks up from the third potato that he is slicing into fourths and he resists an urge to stab the man for that condescending tone alone.

“If you can do better…” he lets the challenge dance in the air between them.

M’s warnings clearly should have contained some mention of never challenging double-O-seven.

James bumps himself back up against Q, plucks a potato from the towel then begins to peel it in a swift, spiraling fashion that is almost hypnotic to watch.  The peel is gone in seconds; most of it in a single long spiraling strip and, with a few quick slices, the potato is cubed and dropped in the bowl with Q’s quartered spuds. James considers those larger chunks then reaches in to begin giving them all another cut to a smaller size for faster cooking.

As Q gapes at him, James turns for a second potato and attacks it the same way he had the first.

“Queen’s Navy,” he offers by way of explanation at Q’s staring.  “KP duty will kill you, one way or another, if you don’t learn how to peel spuds quick and dirty for hungry sailors.”

Q huffs a laugh at that, easily imagining a younger Bond placed often on kitchen patrol for some infraction.  He hands his quartered potato to the man and for an additional slicing then he moves out of the way to claim one of the two stools at the center island in the kitchen. 

He watches in growing fascination as James cuts up the last three potatoes then moves to dump the bowl into the waiting pot of hot water.  For one “fairly competent with a skillet and eggs,” he moves with an ease of confidence from lots of apparent practice. 

They’re quiet as James tends to turning the sausages and preparing the mix of dry ingredients he’ll add to the drippings of the fried meat for the gravy.  Q remembers his mother going through similar motions and again wonders how and when James learned such things.  The tip of his tongue flicks over the edge of his teeth with the want to ask such personal questions here in the quiet kitchen, but he’s loathe to do anything to upset the balance.

“How exactly is it,” he broaches instead, “that you ended up in jail in The Netherlands anyway?”

“They’re rather sticklers for their pedestrian-only thoroughfares in Maastricht,” James explains while covering both the potatoes and sausages to cook unattended.  “The authorities were not amused by my using the sidewalks to bypass traffic.”

“I can imagine,” Q scoffs.  “The question, though, is what traffic in Holland had to do with your objective in Barcelona, Spain.  The two aren’t exactly neighboring countries.”

“You did say my cover was a European tour by car, I only sought to make the stamps in my passport believable,” James’s lip quirks in a slight smirk as he moves to collect his tumbler from the island and take a drink.

“I should have thought with the origin being London and the destination to the southwest in Spain you would have gone the sensible route of, I don’t know, _France_?”

“And I would have done if not for your putting me on that bloody ferry across the Channel,” James tips his glass forward as he wags a finger at Q.  “Too much human drama on such crowded public transport.  When I saw what that blighter did to the poor girl, I had to-”

“What blighter?” Q frowns, finding himself wishing he still had his own glass of alcohol to sip on.  “What girl?”

“The young woman on the ferry that got robbed by the man from-”

“Maastricht,” they conclude together.

_That explains that much._

“So you gave pursuit despite your already having a mission for Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service?” Q feels a headache building in his frontal lobe and presses his fingers in to massage the throb in his brain.  “How very white knight of you.”

“She certainly thought so,” the bastard grins like a naughty schoolboy and finishes his whisky, “but seeing as I was on assignment for Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service,” he openly mocks Q’s tone and phrasing, “I was unable to collect my thanks for having retrieved her-”

“I find I honestly do not care,” Q sighs, putting both hands now to rubbing his forehead.

“-jewelry case,” James continues blithely.  “She had an heirloom diamond in there.  Her mother would have been utterly-“

“Let’s do forget that I ever asked,” Q takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. 

“-devastated has such a precious family artifact been lost to thugs.”

“Of course,” he sighs and puts his glasses back on.  “That all makes perfect sense.  Your bangers will burst if you don’t turn them,” he warns with an appreciative sniff at the food scents beginning to fill the room.

James moves without urgency to lift the lid and give the sausages a roll to allow another side to brown.  After replacing that lid, he swaps the tongs for a large spoon and lifts the lid to give the potatoes a stir. 

The motions are too casual to be anything else and the tension in Q’s muscles finally seems to ease.

They’re peers, co-workers and perhaps delving into the realm of chums here, but it hardly seems more than that.  M’s prediction of love is likely little more than a bit of a ‘mancrush’ or the newness of a ‘bromance’ and all that fangirlish nonsense that Q knows about only because his job requires him to monitor several social media sites such as Tumblr where such words run rampant complete with fanart and OTPs and ‘slash’ talk out the wazoo. 

If this is a seduction, it is one of the worst that he has ever experienced, witnessed or heard of, so he relaxes his guard and gets his mind out of the gutter.  Clearly, all of James’s banter, flirtation and innuendo are all just such a part of his nature that he can’t turn them off; whether he’s interested in a person or not.  Q’s body, sadly, appears in no danger of molestation and/or violation.

 _More’s the pity_ , he thinks as James drops the tongs on the floor and bends over to pick them up. 

The bastard truly did have an arse worth admiring with a firm, toned mound to it from all the running James does for work and pleasure.  It’s the kind or arse that makes Q’s palm itch with the want to smack it and his fingers twitch to curl in and grab the muscle to see just how hard it is. 

If he’s honest with himself, Q will also admit to running his tongue over the edge of his teeth as he imagines what it would be like to bite at that taut rise of flesh.  His cock goes so far as to harden more than a little at the improbable idea of keeping James bent over just as he is, maybe having him grab his ankles, while Q fucks him.  That kind of honesty, though, is best left tied in a tight little bundle and shoved into the furthest recesses of his brain to be allowed out only in private moments as he seeks images to fill his mind as he jerks himself to another solitary climax.

So he relaxes at the ease with which James moves around the kitchen, lulled by the motions.  His headache remains, though, because he is still dealing with Bond here and damned if his brain can wrap around the notion of all this _not_ being for sex.

“Would you like something more to drink?” James asks as he realizes his glass is empty. 

“I’m not much for alcohol,” Q answers as his eyes follow the man’s progress back to the living room for a refill.

“I can put a pot on if you’d like,” James replies as he snag Q’s empty tumbler on the way back to the kitchen.  “Earl Grey, isn’t it?”

“If you have it,” Q perks up at the offer of his preferred drink to unwind with after work.

“Honestly, Q, they’d take my citizenship if I didn’t have tea in my cupboards, especially Earl Grey,” James hams it up a bit with faux admonishment as he pulls down the kettle to fill. 

Q laughs at that as he’s sure he’s intended to as James starts a third burner on the stove to begin heating the water.

“You’re making me feel a bit useless now,” he jokes even as he folds his hands on the counter to keep from drumming fingers unused to be idle for so long.

“Mary, Mary,” James tsks with a sideways smirk.  “I ask you to peel potatoes and you protest, I do all the work so that you can simply sit there all prim and pretty and still you whinge.”

 _Pretty?_   Q’s mind locks in on that single word like a homing beacon.

“Pretty?” he asks and applauds himself for choking the word out with indignation rather than something that begged for compliments and some additional hint that James finds him attractive.

James pauses in the act of pulling down instant tea bags and a mug for Q’s tea to run his gaze slowly and deliberately over Q’s features like a caress, but he in no other way seems to acknowledge Q’s outburst.

“The potatoes need more boiling to be ready to mash and I’ve got the the gravy yet, so we’ve some time if you’d like to make yourself useful prying into those boxes,” he gives a nod toward the living room and Q follows his gaze.

He stifles a sigh at having opened his mouth and ejected his own self from the intimacy of the kitchen.  After a close look to gauge the man’s seriousness, Q pushes off his stool and trudges through the open archway between the spaces. 

He notices James’s abandoned shoes with a pair of dress socks tucked neatly inside and he stops to toe off his loafers to place them beside the other man’s wing tips.  Q keeps his heavy wool socks on because the only time he ever really takes the off is in the shower and the flooring in this place is likely to be cold as ice. 

Q hates the cold, which often puts him at odds with his homeland’s natural climate with so much rain and snow to be counted on each year.  Rather than move even further away from his family to someplace warmer, though, he has drawers full of thick socks, a closet packed year round with sweaters and cardigans then he tops it all off with the warmest of insulated coats, jackets and parkas to shield him when he’s outside.

While studying the room to plan a course of action, he unbuttons the three-button waist of the checkered knit cardigan that he’s wearing.  With the ease of mundane routine, he unknots and removes his tie before shrugging out of the sweater and folding the garments to place them in a neat pile on the end table beside the sofa. 

He determines the books to be the safest bet, something that would start James off on the unpacking without giving Q access to anything personal enough to stir his curiosity any more than everything about the man seems to intrigue him.  For comfort, he unfastens the two top buttons at the neck of his Oxford shirt before doing the same to the cuffs so that he can roll up his sleeves for work.

The whole while that he goes through those motions he feel the stare upon him and wonders if it had been the same for James as Q watched him cooking; the _awareness_ of another person present and focusing solely on you.  He resists the urge to look over at the man to make an attempt at gauging whether James is watching him in any particular _way_ because he knows it would be a wasted effort.  If he had any skill at reading James then it is very unlikely that he’d be uncrating books right now.

He keeps his focus on the stack of boxes strategically placed near a barren bookcase and pulls off the tape sealing the top box closed.  The contents match the black marker labeling; biographies of world leaders and World War I and II war journals from English, French and German perspectives. 

The tomes are written in all the native languages, reminding Q of James’s fluency in several dialects as well as his ability to learn foreign languages.  According to his file, James speaks English and French primarily, his Russian, German and Dutch are strong, Spanish and Mandarin are passable; an impressive list given Q’s that strengths are English, French and Latin with enough comfort with Japanese to navigate the sushi bars.  With his applications on technological devices, though, he’s able to translate most any language without actually understanding a bit of it.

Contrary to his thinking that the books would be a harmless choice; he finds himself brimming with questions to ask as he wonders if James has actually read these titles or just purchased them as coffee table books to appear smarter than he actually is.  When he considers the depth that he’s still discovering in the man, Q feels certain that James has not only read, but likely memorized several passages in every book that he owns.

He empties the first box by placing all the books randomly on shelves to fill in some of the space then he breaks the box down and sets it aside to lean against the wall.  The whistling of the teakettle heralds his opening of the second box.  He gives a glance toward the kitchen to see if he’s needed, but James has things well in hand as he pours steaming hot water in the mug with the waiting teabag.

Q turns back to the books, finding more of the same nonfiction in even thicker volumes. 

“Is there any particular order that you’d like these in?” he asks without looking away from his chore as he senses James approaching.

“I’ve always gone with the big ones narrowed down to the small,” the tone is droll as James comes to a stop beside him.

Q looks up with a faintly amused quirk to his lips as he adds another handful of books to the shelves before accepting the proffered mug of tea.  He hooks a finger in the string attached to the teabag and gives it a few pulls to watch the contents of the bag disperse into the water before he sets the glass aside to steep while cooling enough to drink.

“I rather took it for granted that you wouldn’t want milk, but I can get it for you along with sugar or lemon if you like,” James offers with flawless hosting etiquette.

Sensing that James will hover until he’s given an opinion on the simple brew, Q picks the mug back up, gives it a stir with the teabag then tasks a careful sip after a few futile blows to cool it.  The liquid burns the tip of his tongue on the way in then moves hotly down his throat, leaving behind a pleasingly strong taste of bergamot with the refreshing chaser or citrus.  Not the best cuppa that he’s had, but very good for a bagged blend.  His eyes drift closed as he hums appreciatively, curling both his hands around the warm mug as the heat spreads through him from the drink.

 _Tea,_ Q firmly believes, _can tame even the most savage of beasts._

“Bathroom’s down and on the left,” James says with a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he watches Q take another sip.  “I’ve about finished, if you care to wash up.”

Q takes him up on that offer, reluctantly surrendering his tea to James’s waiting hand and watching the man return to the kitchen to place the mug on the counter at Q’s spot.  He moves the steps necessary to take him into the bathroom and keeps his eyes averted from the open door at the end of the hallway that is undoubtedly the entrance to James’s bedroom.

He makes quick use of the facilities and is pleased by his reflection in the mirror as he dries his hands; just the same calm, unrumpled Q that he always sees.  The tea and James’s completely friendly overtures have erased any physical traces of Q’s interest in getting shagged by James Bond.  As well as his disappointment in knowing that there would be no such occurrence.  He rather hopes that if nothing else comes of this night, Q has at least rid himself of the foolish notions stirred by M’s advice.

He exits the lavatory and strides easily to the kitchen to reclaim his stool, glancing with some surprise at the place settings now on the island.  He’s just in time to watch James’s forearms flex as the man mashes the boiled potatoes.  James’s has also rolled up his sleeves and the movement of muscles as he works is a bit too fascinating for Q’s libido.  His attention diverts to the plate of crispy brown sausages set on the counter next to the stove and he happily latches on the sight and smell of the bangers as the reason for his sudden salivating. 

James finishes pulverizing the potatoes and returns the pot to the stove to add milk, butter, salt and a smidge of garlic powder to meld together while he turn his focus to finishing the brown gravy simmering in the skillet after the sausages had been removed.  

Q reaches out distractedly to pick up his mug and smiles as he sees that the bag has been removed and tossed as no longer of use.  The drink is still hot and soothing as he takes a deep swallow to, again, keep from asking at where James learned this particular skill.

With it just being the two of them in this casual setting, Q expects James to just divvy the food up between them and serve, but he further surprises Q by taking extra efforts. 

The man puts the plate of sausages on the island in front of Q.  Soon after he places an honest to God gravy boat next to the sausages after having taken the time to pour the pan of gravy into the fancy dish.  He whips the mashes potatoes into a frothy off-white cloud then scrapes them into a serving bowl to be added to the items sitting in front of Q.  He carries the used dishes to the sink for a quick swish to discourage food debris from sticking then he takes the time to place them in the dishwasher before he collects a stotty from the bread box to complete the collection on the counter.  All fussing apparently done, he finally moves to sit on the stool beside Q.

The island is very short, lengthwise, when you put two grown men side by side and expect them to share the surface. 

Q reminds himself that they’re just a pair of blokes breaking bread together and there’s no reason now for him to flinch away from contact with the man or to try leaning in closer to him.  Therefore, he forces himself to sit up straight and tuck in his elbows to preserve the illusion of there actually being space between them.

James, of course, shatters that illusion by leaning into Q on his way to the food.  He picks the mash up first and offers the bowl to Q who instinctively accepts the offer and scoops out a small mound of potatoes for his plate.  He reaches for the sausages, spearing two wonderfully plump lengths and placing them beside his potatoes before offering the platter to James as the other man replaces the bowl of potatoes on the table.  Q goes for the gravy boat next to pour a healthy dose of the thick, brown mix over his plate before quietly offering the boat to Bond at the same time that James finishes breaking off a chunk of bread and extends the stotty cake to Q. 

They exchange offerings with an ease that neither of them question; it’s something that’s just been between them since their first handshake.  Just an indication of what should be a long and productive working relationship.

Eating ends up a rather quiet affair, with Q suddenly realizing that he’s near famished once he takes in his first forkful of bangers and mash covered in rich brown gravy.  He’s pretty sure that he moans appreciatively around that first bite as he dives in for a second and Bond makes an amused grunting noise in acknowledgement as he cuts the three sausages on his plate into bite-sized pieces. 

For some reason, Q is rather thrown by all these meticulous little traits that he’s seeing in Bond in this setting; the organization of supplies, the cleaning up after himself almost immediately and the deliberation with which he eats.  Q imagines some of it to be carrying over from his military days and some likely dating back to his rather privileged youth, but he can’t imagine why the traits exhibit themselves when James is at home, at rest, when he’s so very destructive and improper on the job. 

It’s yet another piece of the puzzle that the man is and Q loves puzzles.

 ** _“Loves”_** _in a strictly non-sexual, fully mind engrossing way_ , he defends with the specter of M in the back of his head.

Between the two of them, there are no leftovers.  Q eats a third sausage along with most of the bread and gravy while leaving James the heartier portions of meat and potatoes.  He finishes off his tea and James empties his third tumbler before they simultaneously rise.  They each gather their own plates and utensils before splitting up the other dishes with Q getting off lightly with the gravy boat while James adds the serving bowl and sausage platter to his stack. 

Q claims the sink, turning on the taps to give everything a rinse and pushing back playfully when James shoves in to refill the kettle and put it back on.  He places all the dishes in the washer while James pulls down the teabags from the cupboard along with a second mug. 

James puts his tumbler in with the wash, indicating that he’s done with the hard drinking tonight.  Q swishes out his own mug and gives it a quick drying before putting it on the counter beside James’s.  He then leans back against the counter, propping himself up with his hands braced on the surface behind him, and watches as James deposits another Earl Grey mix in Q’s mug.  He’s sure his eyebrow arches up into his hairline, but he says nothing when he sees James selecting a chamomile blend for himself.

“It’s a nice, relaxing brew,” James defends, seeing the arched expression.  “If you haven’t noticed, we are coming up on bed time, Q.”

Q hasn’t noticed and he makes a point of doing so now, looking at his watch for the first time since arriving at the flat and blinking when the digital display tells him that over two hours have passed.

“Well, if nine pm is so late for the legendary James Bond, perhaps I should skip my nightcap and call for a cab,” he scoffs at the notion of this being the man’s bedtime for anything _sleep_ related.

“You’re not about to leave your job half-arsed,” James gives him a sideways glance before looking pointedly at the two remaining boxes of books in the living room.  “I’ve fed you good and proper now back to work with you.”

Q has a laugh at that because he thinks the man to be joking, but his amusement quickly fades when James puts his hands on Q’s shoulders to turn him toward the living room then sends him on his way with a very sound smack to Q’s buttocks. 

He stumbles dumbly towards the boxes while resisting the urge to rub his arse as the knowledge repeats in his head like a breaking news bulletin; _James Bond just smacked my bum_.  He tears the tape off the next box and begins pulling out books via muscle memory while his mind goes back to wondering just what James is about with regard to Q.

He’s almost emptied the box before he even takes note of the content; more nonfiction.  _All_ nonfiction.

He finds himself staring at a copy of _Vera Brittain: A Feminist Life_ and he blinks several times to assure himself that his eyes are working.

“Really?” he remarks aloud, looking to the kitchen and holding the volume up for James to see.  “ _You’ve_ read about the feminist movement in Britain and her contributions during the Wars?”

James squints as if needing to read the cover before he commits himself to a comment and Q rolls his eyes.

“Skimmed that one,” the man answers after a moment.  “Gift from M.  She prejudged me to be a misogynist based on having read my files before becoming Director and, being a female, she tried to better me as we got to know one another.  I’m sure that she thought that the book would help me understand the female plight in a male dominated society so that I’d be more appreciative of their efforts and advancement.”

“I can see that worked out quite well,” Q remarks drolly while putting the book on the highest shelf as no one would likely be looking to read such a thing in the residence of double-O-seven.

“It has indeed.  I’ve come to realize that woman are more than skirts to lift to get at their warm bodies to bed,” Jams deadpans.  “With this modern movement, they’ve taken to wearing trousers now to delay that inevitability.”

Q looks down at the book in his hand, finds the topic of absolutely no interest and does not hesitate to give the item a good throw at James’s head for the man’s sexist brand of humor.

James catches the volume with an infectious laugh and puts it on the counter as the teakettle begins to whistle shrilly. 

Q goes back to the books with a reluctant grin and shake of his head.

How a comment like **that** can actually be **charming** , Q does not know even as he finds himself _charmed_ ; likely more by the twinkle in the man’s eyes than the droll words. 

He’s kneeling over the last box when he sees James’s feet appear beside him on the lush rug spread over the floor space.  He looks up through the fall of his bangs, still grinning, to accept his tea from the man.  He extends his hand upward for the mug to be placed into it, but James doesn’t respond to the nonverbal cue as expected. 

Instead, James stands there for a moment, holding both mugs in his hands and staring down at Q with something far removed from humor sparking in those blue eyes.  The smile drops slowly from Q’s mouth under that stare and he licks lips that feel suddenly dry.  The staring drags out for several moments longer than it should have until Q breaks away with a clearing of his throat that spurs James into action.

The man practically shoves the mug into Q’s outstretched hand before turning abruptly away to sit down on the sofa.  Q lifts the mug to blow carefully over the steaming surface of tea before daring to take a sip.  Through the mist, he watches James put his tea on the end table while sitting forward on the edge of his seat to stare at the box on the coffee table labeled to contain James’s life accomplishments. 

He takes a contemplative sip of his drink as he watches the life seem to drain out of James as the man stares at that one particular box.  He sees the ways James’s gaze flicks toward the decanters as if wanting another bit of Dutch courage then he watches the way the man inhales before pushing forward to grab the box and pull it back into his lap.

Q sets aside his tea to tear off the tape of the last box of books as James opens his package with something like trepidation. 

Q determinedly focuses on unpacking the last of the hardbacks to join the now respectable collection on the bookcase.  He breaks the last box down and puts the cardboard aside with the others before scooping up his mug to stand studying the books with his back purposely to the man on the couch.  He studies the randomly placed volumes on each shelf with a thought toward alphabetizing them at the very least if not arranging them in some kind of chronological order based on the timeline of events that each book pertains to. 

Then he tilts his head to the side, puts his mug down and starts pulling out books then replacing them on the shelves until they line up in each row from the tallest, thickest books to the shortest and thinnest.  The result seems oddly fitting and he wonders if he might should try utilizing James’s method for his own library.

Behind him, James makes a sound of disgust preceding a thud that causes Q to turn sharply to look at the man.

“That was a bloody depressing idea,” James drawls, glaring at the box that he’s dropped back on the coffee table in exchange for his chamomile tea.  “Interns who packed that lot up are right, it should be burnt.  Don’t know why I’ve bothered to hold on to any of it.”

“Because it’s your life,” Q responds automatically, a frown furrowing his brow. 

“If my life can be shoved into one damned cardboard box then I’ve really no idea what I bothered coming back for.”

The comment hangs there with neither of them touching it or voicing the reason that they’re both well aware of for James’s decision to resurrect himself. 

_M._

Even without speaking her identity, they both turn to look at the sobering black box on the side table just inside the flat.

Q collects his mug then moves to sit at the opposite corner of the sofa from James, turned sideways toward the other man but keeping his stare over the back of the couch on the item that is supposedly his reason for having been invited here. 

“We could keep with the tradition that she established and keep it on your desk,” he muses suddenly to break the quiet. 

James gives him a look over the rim of his mug as he takes a drink of tea, an arch to his brow that clearly rejects that notion.

He casts a glance around them for ideas, but seeing nothing suitable.  There’s no mantel on which such a personal item could be displayed and putting the figurine in the empty spaces on one of the bookcase just doesn’t quite fit.

“Perhaps out here in the open is the wrong place to be looking,” inspiration strikes and he places his mug on the end table beside his end of the couch before springing to his feet to collect the black box.  “Sentimentality aside, it’s very much a _personal_ effect, so it simply does not belong out here for open display.”

“It doesn’t belong on display because it’s damned ugly,” James snorts.

Q ignores that remark because the tone holds more fondness than fire.

“It’s a resilient little fellow,” Q muses as he reverently removes the broken figurine from the box to study the glued crack crossing the bulldog’s face like a scar.  “He’s got character.”

“It’s a bloody knickknack, Q, such things do not possess or exude personality.”

 _Most may not, but **this one** does,_ Q thinks but does not say as his gaze is drawn down the corridor to James’s bedroom.

He reminds himself that he’s already concluded that they’re not having sex, just friends here, so he should have no problem making the suggestion on his mind. 

“I’m sure you’ve a suitable place for it in your bedroom,” Q feels the tips of his ears heating and hopes the foolish blush isn’t spread over his cheeks as well. 

James’s hand pauses in mid-air for a moment as he flicks a glance to Q before he carries the mug on to his lips for a drink.  He swallows down the last of his tea then pushes up from the sofa, stopping to collect Q’s nearly empty mug before moving to the kitchen to add the dishes to the collection in the dishwasher.  His hand flicks out to shut the lights off in the kitchen as he leaves the room and moves to stand beside Q.

“That may be the best idea of the day,” James murmurs with something in his eyes that Q can only describe as predatory.

Q gulps and blinks, torn between wanting to shrink away from the man and to throw caution to the wind and just kiss the bastard to get it out of the way.  He takes a step backward then narrows his gaze when James’s lip quirks upward in triumph as he reaches out to take the figurine from Q.

“You’ll find that there aren’t many options in here,” he says as he nudges Q down the hallway into his bedroom.

James turns a dial on the wall and the suite illuminates with a soft glow from lighting placed subtly all around the room. 

The crew had clearly done their research in designing and decorating the flat for Bond because they’d really gone all out with their efforts in the bedroom.  The space is dominated by a king sized bed with a solid oak bedroom set of a long, three drawer dresser with mirror, large armoire, writing desk and nightstands on either side of the large bed.  The carpet is a lush cream that cushions Q’s feet and the bedding looks just as soft; a mix of deep chocolate browns and light tan tones. 

Contrary to what Q might of expected if he allowed himself to think of James’s bedroom, the space beckons for comfort rather than seduction.  Not a hint of silk sheets and leopard prints in sight, just rich cotton and solids.  The walls are the same cream color as the carpeting with a few select artworks hanging that Q recognizes as Alexander Nasmyth landscapes and a print of William McTaggart’s _Through Wind and Rain_. 

Q smiles as he drifts toward that seascape of men battling to bring a boat to shore through storm-roughened waters, mentally comparing the scene to _The Fighting Temeraire_ by J.M.W. Turner and thinking of his first meeting with double-O-seven.  Just as he does at the museums, Q moves on to study the next artwork with his hands clasped loosely at the small of his back to insure he doesn’t give in to any urges to reach out and touch a canvas to feel the texture of the pains used to give the images vitality and life.  The _View of Dunnottar Castle_ appears to be an original and Q searches his memory and recalls the art having been up for bid at Christie’s in recent years. 

Q keeps his tongue determinedly still as he surveys the works, not wanting to reveal his passion for the arts any more than he had by selecting the National Gallery for their first meeting. 

He’s always found the study of art to calm the synapses constantly firing in his brain.  Even as a child, pretty pictures had had an effect on him; so much so that his mother often resorted to leaving him at museums when his inquisitive nature had her on the verge of pulling out her hair.  If it were a more lucrative trade and not likely to bore him into a vegetative state over time, he’d have become a curator.  He puts his degree in art history to occasional use for the MI6 when they get involved in art heists, which are surprisingly common in the spy game, but for the most part, he keeps art separate as an escape from the chaos of a life in espionage for Mother England.

“There is no velvet rope here,” James remarks from behind him, “you can touch anything you like to here.”

The possible double entendre startles Q to a standstill.  He casts a glance over his shoulder to see James leaning a shoulder against the doorframe and watching Q’s exploration of the room.  Refusing to accept the invitation or rise to the bait, whichever the comment may have been, Q tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers and gives the room another look-over with the bulldog in mind.

The problem that he’s finding with all of this flat is that there are no spaces filled with anything personal.  It might well be a hotel suite or something equally anonymous because there is not a single indication that anyone lives here let alone who that person is.  Q had thought with the bedroom being a more intimate locale than the living room he’d see place ideal for the inheritance, but instead he finds himself seeing that James’s quandary was quite real; the man has no place to put M’s figurine.

“Do you intend staying here?” he finds himself asking.  “You’ve nothing personal in the place, not even here,” he rushes on to say to justify his question.  “If you’ve no intention of settling in to this flat, perhaps your best course of action would be to put the dog back in the box and add it to the lot on your coffee table.”

“It’ll do as well as any other,” James shrugs away from the doorframe to mosey – no other word for it – into the room.  “The bed’s amazing.  You should give it a try.”

His tone and the quirk of his lips are joking, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that seems to both dare and beckon Q to lie down on the bed. 

Q remains standing, staring at the man with growing exasperation.

“So what do you think?” James switches topics like the breeze changing course.  “The armoire?”

He moves to place the figurine atop the piece of furniture in question, leaving the sullen faced bulldog to look upon them from its lofty position atop the five-foot armoire.  James moves without Q’s input to retrieve the dog for placement elsewhere.

“The dresser?”

They both tilt their heads contemplatively at the figurine place atop the low-slung chest of drawers before Q gives a definite shake of his head.

“Not really a place for such things,” he concludes.

James hums his agreement and picks the dog back up to move it to his writing desk.

“Don’t really fancy it being here,” he murmurs as he moves it to a few different positions on the wooden surface.

“That would be a rather suitable location, though, from M’s desk to yours,” Q disagrees.  “Perhaps we should have considered your desk at headquarters.  Maybe it was M’s way of trying to-“

“She wasn’t telling me to throw in any towels with this,” James cuts him off and picks the dog back up to study with an almost begrudging fondness.  “She was telling me to dig in and go harder.”

Q doesn’t really get that, but he nods, knowing that the figurine would have likely had a more sentimental meaning between the man and deceased woman.

“That leaves us with the nightstands,” Q turns to consider them and finds himself staring at the broad surface of that big, inviting bed.

A part of him feels a childish urge to bellyflop onto the covers to at least learn if the bedding is as soft as it appears.  He wonders if James has slept there often enough to scent the sheets with his musk and that’s a thought that has Q dropping his head into his hand to rub at his throbbing temple. 

At this point, he no longer knows if he can continue blaming Bond for his migraine inducing inner conflict or if the blame rests squarely on Q’s own shoulders for reading too damned much into the man’s actions.  Q settles on the less admirable course of blaming M for her ever planted the seed that is causing Q to second-guess his own thoughts and reactions for Bond. 

James brushes past him, seeming to make deliberately accidental contact with his arm along the way as he moves to place the figurine on the stand to the right of the bed.  That seems to be James’s side of the bed as that stand is the one with an alarm clock on it along with a lamp.  The stand to the left only has a lamp.

“What do you think?” he asks, trying the dog in a few different locations on the surface before stepping back to study it.

It is the way James’s cups his chin in an over-exaggeration of thought that finally tips Q over the edge.

“You’re having me on,” Q accuses as the ruse wears thin.  “You honestly expect me to believe that you’ve brought me here for _actual_ interior design input?!”

“I do believe that’s what I asked you here for,” James murmurs without reaction to Q’s tone.  “This godawful thing doesn’t really fit anywhere here, but I’m bloody obligated to keep it so it deserves a proper place for display.”

He picks the dog up and moves to the other side of the bed, again dragging his arm against Q’s side as he goes.

“You honestly expect me to believe that that wasn’t just some line to get me here for sex?  This,” Q flaps a hand around the bedroom they’re in, “ _that_ is your bed, a ridiculously big bed, it is, and you expect me to believe that you have no interest or intention of seducing me into it?”

“Why, Q,” James murmurs with an expression of feigned shock on his face as he places the figurine on the nightstand and turns to face Q, “is that what you’ve come here for?” he sidles closer, but still stays back far enough that Q can only feel the presence of the man and imagine the heat of his body. 

“Did you want me to seduce you?” he lifts a hand to stroke the collar of Q’s shirt before gripping the folded down ends before his thumb and forefingers.  “Would you like me to seduce you?” he tugs and Q finds himself moving closer to eliminate the space between their bodies like it’s all his own idea and doing for them to suddenly be standing chest to chest.  “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” 

Q does believe that _this **is**_ the worst seduction in the history of all sex.  He wants to cry foul for the blatant misuse of corny movie quotes, but damned if his body isn’t succumbing to James’s tone of voice, the sultry look in the man’s eyes and the sudden proximity to that body that is really leaner that it appears under those tailored suits.  The muscle is there, but just a show of strength, nothing overblown for vanity.  He sees James’s mouth opening to add something more, but he puts an end to this nonsense by very firmly placing his lips over James’s to swallow whatever line may have been coming next. 

The stubble is unusual against Q’s face, but the lips are soft and warm enough to distract from that fact as Q presses his tongue to the seam to urge James’s mouth open.  James doesn’t resist nor does he actively participate, just allowing Q to plot the course they’re taking. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Q knows to be wary of such complacence, but it’s a very small part far far away from the impulses driving him to curl his tongue around James’s teeth to play at trying to guess by feel the molar in the back with the cyanide capsule.  He tastes chamomile, sausages with hints of onion and whisky and keeps searching until he finds a taste of something purely James.

“Mr. Q, it appears that _you’re_ trying to seduce me,” James murmurs when Q breaks away to breathe.

“Do shut up,” Q strives for a firm, unamused tone and comes out with a fond sigh.  “You’re spoiling all my illusions.”

“You’re not living up to my fantasies either,” James feigns regret and runs his fingers down the buttoned front of Q’s shirt to curl over the bulge of the erection pushing at the zip on his trousers.  “No maidenly blushes and weak protests.”

“My apologies,” Q moves his hands to unfasten James’s shirt, “I’m afraid I’ve worked past all that already.  M, you see, she warned me about you.”

James’s hand flexes at the mention of the woman, curling tight as he’d just received a blow before he remembers where his hand is and kindly lets Q go before he does more than squeak at the grip on his cock.

“She never did like me to have any fun,” James murmurs with a forced twist of his lips.

“She loved you, you know,” Q says without thinking how odd such a statement might be given their approaching intimacy. 

“That’s a very bad idea,” James is suddenly very serious as he lifts a hand to curl around the side of Q’s neck, putting a thumb under the jaw to tip Q’s head back.  “Loving me is something you must never do.”

“Your ego may be unable to accept this, but you’ll have to do far better than _this_ for me to fall headers over the likes of you,” Q lies.  “I was under the impression that sex was on offer and I know you’re good for a one-off.  _How_ **_good_** remains to be seen.”

“‘A one-off,’” James’s brow and lip quirk in tandem at that as his thumb begins to stroke Q’s throat.  “Is that all you’re here for?”

“I did think it best to get the curiosity out of the way,” he tries not to swallow too noticeably and dares not allow his lashes to flicker under the scrutiny of that intense blue gaze; “so long as you can manage to behave appropriately at work afterward.”

“Define appropriately,” James moves a hand to deftly unfasten Q’s belt and trousers. 

“ _That_ would not be suitable for the workplace,” Q huffs out a laugh as James’s hand slides beneath his underwear to get a grip on Q’s prick.

“I suppose I’m not to do this either,” James leans to bite at the underside of Q’s jaw.

“Can’t have the interns plotting my demise in their envy of such attention,” he muses, head tilting to grant easier access for James’s tongue to lick down his neck.

“Pity,” his tongue laves over a particularly erogenous zone near Q’s shoulder, “I so wanted to bend you over your workstation and have a go at this there to see if it would distract you from your gadgets.”

 _Really?_   Q’s pulse quickens at the thought of that.

“I hardly think they’d overlook such conduct,” he murmurs aloud, “did you pay any attention to your sexual harassment in the workplace seminars?”

“Of course,” James pulls back with a grin and begins to unbutton Q’s shirt.  “The instructor’s breasts were barely contained by her blazer and I paid close attention in case they happened to pop out as she was going on and on about all the things we’re not to do in the office. Otherwise, it was boring as all those bloody lectures we’re always getting about one thing or another.”

As a joke, it is a deliberately bad one and Q merely rolls his eyes at the words.

James gives a nudge and Q ends up sitting on the edge of the bed.  James then spreads his legs apart then drops to kneel between them and Q feels all traces of humor leaving the room in much the same fashion that all the oxygen leaves his lungs. 

With easy movements, James strips away the bunched material of Q’s pants and boxers, taking off Q’s socks on the way.  He pushes up on his knees and presses his torso to Q’s as he urges Q to shrug out of his shirt.

“Is this more to your expectations?”

Q looks down as James tongues a path down his chest while his hands rest atop Q’s thighs, thumbs stroking the inside crease where leg and pelvis join. 

Given that he never would have imagined James giving head to another man, _this_ is quite beyond Q’s expectations and he falls back on the comforter as his cock slides into the wet heat of the man’s mouth.  The bedding is like a cloud, fabrics too luxurious for Q to ever consider splurging to purchase, his fingers dig into it without care for wrinkles or possible tears as James moves a hand between his legs to roll his balls as the man begins to _suck_ at Q’s cock.  He digs his head into the covers, presses his feet against the lush carpeting and surges upward to fuck into James’s mouth when a finger suddenly pushes into his arse.

James swallows him down, riding the surge and humming softly to ease Q back down to lie on the bed.  The finger inside him crooks and Q shouts out a cry and rocks back against James’s hand to encourage more of that touching.  He loses James’s mouth in the process and his cry become a moan of protest as the wet suction is replaced by the firm grip of faintly callused fingers.

“Top or bottom?”

A second finger, slicked with what can only be saliva, pushes into him and Q is understandably distracted by the stretching of his hole around those blunt fingers.  He feels James shifting to lean over him, the clothing the man still wears rubbing against Q’s bared flesh in a deliciously abrasive manner that he finds himself arching into for added stimulation.  He feels the leather of Bond’s belt and the linen of the man’s trousers against his cock and he ruts shamelessly against the materials.

“Q,” he shudders at the tickle of breath from James speaking directly into his ear, “do you want me to fuck you,” the fingers in his arse scissor apart then curl to press against his prostate, “or…”

Q’s eyes blink open as his mind blanks out at there being an “or.”

James smiles down at, smug as ever at seeing Q nonplussed. 

“Do you want to fuck me?”

_That’s an option?!_

From the huff of laughter that escapes James as he eases away, Q is certain that he spoke that bit aloud. 

He blinks again to clear away the haze of arousal as he watches James unbuttoning the last of the buttons on his shirt to shirt the garment away.  His eyes go to the scars then away from that potential landmine to focus on the man’s hands as he unbuckles his belt.

His movements seem to slow under Q’s watchful gaze, fingers stroking the visible length of his cock beneath his trousers before he flicks open the button at the waist.  Q props himself up slowly on his elbows to watch as James does carefully unzips his pants then sends them falling down his legs with a shimmy of his hips that any stripper would envy. 

The material drops as far as his knees before bunching and Q’s gaze goes to the man’s meaty thighs and the cock between them.  It bouncing and sways hypnotically as James moves to shed the last of his clothing and Q finds that he wants the thing inside him; his mouth or arse, he doesn’t care, he wants to stretch himself around that cock.

_But if he has a chance to fuck James, how can he possibly pass that up?_

It’s utterly unfair that this has to be a one-off because he wants everything and will only end up with scraps of memory.

He swallows down his regrets as James moves to the nightstand at the right and opens the drawer to withdraw condoms, Q perks up some at the sight of multiple packets, and lubricant.  As James moves to get back on the bed, Q reluctantly takes off his glasses and moves to put them on the opposite nightstand so that they don’t get in the way. 

His gaze catches on the blurry shape of the bulldog staring back at him and he startles with a ridiculous urge to cover himself from those painted eyes.  Without hesitation, he puts his glasses down on the stand and immediately turns the figurine to face away from the bed.

He senses James pausing behind him in the process of crawling toward him and he turns eagerly to resume touching the man.  His vision is good enough that he can make out just enough of James features to see that he has again amused the man.

“I take it you disagree with my placement?” James casts a glance at the back of the bulldog.

“I really don’t think she needs to see this.”

That gives James pause and he tilts his head consideringly at Q, “You do realize that she’s not actually _in_ the statue, don’t you?”

“Sod off,” Q snorts and shoves at James’s shoulder.  “ _It_ was looking at us.  You can’t say that you prefer it facing the bed.”

“Frankly, Q, I intend to be too occupied to care,” James drops the items in his hands to the bed in favor of bracing himself as he lies his body out atop Q’s.  “Although, if it takes so little to distract _you.._.”

Q’s eyes narrow at the faint challenge and he moves to give another shove at the man’s shoulder.  He’s surprised that James goes with the push and rolls off of him to lie at Q’s side for a moment before Q moves to straddle the man.

“So you do prefer to be on top,” James settles comfortably beneath him, “I thought as much.”

His places his hands on Q’s spread thighs and strokes upward to tease at the apex before skimming back down to Q’s knees.

“Now what do you intend to do with me?”

His hands reverse, fingers turning inward to caress along the inside of Q’s thighs.  At the apex, he turns his touch to cradle Q’s bollocks in one hand and curl the other around the base of his cock. 

Q shakes as the hand tugs lightly at his balls while the other squeezes a path up Q’s shaft until his thumb flicks over the tip, sliding over the slickness there. 

“Want to slick this up and shove it in me?”

James’s tone is low and seductive, lulling Q into naturally taking up the rocking rhythm set by the motion of James’s hands upon him.  Q leans forward to brace his hands upon James’s shoulders as he thrusts gently forward in keeping with the easy pace of the man’s touch.  James’s cock slides easily into the crack of his arse, gliding along the crevasse as an additional caress.

“Or perhaps I should slick up and shove into you,” James trails fingers slicked with precum from the tip of Q’s shaft down between his legs to circle Q’s hole.

Both ideas are tempting enough that the images brought to mind sear the backs of his tightly closed eyelids, but Q makes his decision and opens his eyes to locate the condoms and lubricant on the bedding.  He tears into the condom wrapper with haste as he scoots backward to aid in preparations.  His body shudders at the loss of contact with James’s hands, but he still it with the knowledge and promise of what is to come.

The tip of James’s cock drags over Q’s hole and jostles his bollocks on the way past.  When their shafts slide against one another, Q stops and grinds for a moment before rearing upright enough to take the rubber out and unroll it over James’s length. 

James rolls his hips up into Q’s hand as it settles the condom at the base of the man’s shaft.  His eyes have darkened to the color of a stormy sky as he looks up at Q and Q’s hand tremors over the task of uncapping the lube to dispense a heavy dollop of gel into his palm.  He slicks the sheathed length of James’s cock before reaching behind himself to wipe the residue around his hole, pushing his slick fingers inward to make some bit of room for the thick head of that cock.

He knows enough about this process to know that little bit is hardly enough, but his position on top will help him control the pace and depth of penetration.  He adds a little more lube to directly to James shaft before recapping the bottle and tossing it aside. 

“Done this before, have you?” James arches a brow as Q resettles himself astride James’s hips.

“Hardly complicated,” Q smirks with confidence by way of evading the topic.  “Insert Tab A into Slot B.”

Brave words aside, he hovers over the actual insertion; holding the base of James shaft and rubbing the tip against his entrance until James takes hold of his hips to still his rocking motion.

“Sooner rather than later, I should think,” his tone and grip are firm as he presses upward to wedge the head of his cock against Q’s hole.

Q takes the hint and pushes back against the intrusion, breathing in deeply at the stretch and resistance of his body.  He stares down at the furrow of James’s brow; the look of intense concentration on his face as he inhales with the smallest flare of his nostrils and exhales in a controlled stream out his pursed lips.  He locks gazes with the man and watching the flare of his pupils as Q keeps right on pushing until he’s got James buried balls deep in his arse.

He stills at the knowledge that they’ve actually done this; that he’s taken Bond into himself and he savors the moment.  James’s hands flex upon him, fingers curling in and releasing to urge Q’s hips to move.

Q leans down to brace his hands on the bed and put his mouth against James’s shoulder, the movement lifting him up James’s cock and shifting the angle of it inside him.  James’s hands goes from his hips to dig into the cheeks of his arse, urging them further apart as his hips buck upward to try regaining the depth of penetration that he’d had.  Q’s mouth drags up James’s neck to rub over the rasp of his stubble before he tongues at those pursed lips for entrance to James’s mouth.

The opens for him, tongue moving to tangle with Q’s as their bodies rock together.  The motion is nice; slow and steady with a prod and drag inside him.  He digs into the mattress with his hands and knees, putting more force behind his undulations as James bites at his tongue.8arl once the pressure eases.  He places a bite of his own to James’s neck, enjoying the way the man tips his head to the side for Q to bite again and again on his way down to James’s shoulder then his chest.  He bypasses the scars to focus on the nubs of James’s nipples, grazing them each with the edge of his teeth before he pushes upright to take the full length of James in again.

He has only a moment to enjoy the feeling before James is tumbling him back on the bed to kneel between his legs.  James hooks his arms under Q’s knees and hitches them up to his shoulders as he takes over.  Q wants to protest the change in position seeing as they’d already established that he was to be on top, but he opens his mouth and only a groan comes out as James continues the steady pace Q had unconsciously set.

“That what you like? Nice and easy?” James murmurs against his lips.  “Have you never been fucked?” he pulls away to begin quickening the pace.  “Fast,” he withdraws then pushes quickly back in, “and hard,” his thrust is like a punch and it shakes a grunt from Q as his fingers twist in the comforter, “and dirty?”

He bends to lick at Q’s mouth, leaving it slack and slick as he reaches out a hand to find the lube.  The bottle clicks open and Q hears the squirt of gel moments before James hand wraps around his cock.  Q arches into the slick touch with a hiss at the cool lubricant. 

Without James’s hand to hold it up, Q’s left leg drops down.  He curls it around the man’s thrusting hips for a moment, biting out a curse at the way that changes the angle of James’s cock inside him.  He’s not content to just go along for this ride, so he moves to brace his foot on the bed so that he can push back against James’s thrusts and that may be the best idea of his life because the angle sparks something electric inside him.

His hands release the covers to claw at James’s back to pull the man down to him.  He finds he can only pant for breath, though, as the shift twists Q up like a pretzel with one knee practically up beside his ear as his other leg is braced against the bed.  His forehead presses against James’s and he can feel them both sweating; breathes in the puffs of breath that blow harshly from James’s mouth.

“You’re going to come for me like this,” James murmurs sin in his ear.  “I’m going to squeeze your cock then as you come you’re going to squeeze mine with your tight little arse.”

He puts action to words, stroking a tight fist over Q’s cock a few times before ringing his fingers around the tip and squeezing at the same time that his cock slams into Q with a jarring thud that tries to jerk Q’s cock away.  James doesn’t let go, though, and the rough tug of his flesh makes Q twist and arch and cry out as his body draws tight before convulsing in climax. 

Q is vaguely aware of the man finding his own release, the sudden jerks of his hips followed by a hard grinding as he bows and groans over Q.  He takes the weight of the man when James collapses atop him and shudders anew when James’s softened cock slips out of his arse, but Q finds that he is suddenly very exhausted and he tips over to sleep with only a passing thought of what a rude guest it makes him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to qbond's 00Q Advent on tumblr; [Mission00Q](http://qbond.tumblr.com/tagged/mission00q).


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